


Dreaming in Red

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dreams, M/M, Masturbation, Post Reichenbach, Red Pants Contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red is just a colour, but it inflamed, it aroused, it made Sherlock <em>want</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming in Red

One glimpse. Just one tiny line of red above the waistband of John’s trousers as he reached for something in a high cabinet was all it took. 

Sherlock had to know. He had to see.

John‘s red pants.

They had been skirting around the edges of each other since Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Flirting with each other without actually being flirtatious. Sherlock didn’t really understand flirting. What was the point?

Irene tried with her endless texts to ‘have dinner’. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t John. That was her greatest flaw. He only wanted to “dine” with John.

It was only John. Could only be John. Ever. It would be better to just come out with it. But, he discovered, he couldn’t make his mouth say what his mind and heart wanted.

So, they did this dance of standing too close at the kitchen sink, feet touching under the table, one long leg resting against a shorter one in cabs. Touches that lasted just a bit longer than was necessary. Looks that held a moment or two longer than was proper. Desperately trying to communicate what he wanted to John without having to say it out loud.

Oh, but the pants. That little peek at John’s red pants. It was like a red flag in front of a bull. They were all Sherlock could see when he closed his eyes.

Red was the colour for stop, for danger, destruction. It was the colour of blood, life and anger. It was also the colour of lust and passion. Red is just a colour, but it inflamed, it aroused, it made Sherlock _want_. 

Sherlock began to dream of the red pants.

John would come into Sherlock’s room in the night, wearing nothing and holding the pants in his hands. Dream-John would crawl into bed with Sherlock and wrap the soft, well-worn fabric around his cock and wordlessly stroke him till he came. 

Sometimes in the dreams, Sherlock would be in Lestrade’s office or at a crime scene and realize that all he was wearing under his beloved coat were John’s red pants. Dream-John would look at Sherlock and smile lasciviously, because he knew. Sherlock would be helpless to stop his dream-self from opening the coat to show off his new undergarments. Dream-John would lick his lips at the sight of Sherlock’s achingly hard erection.

Dream-John would come to him wearing his dressing gown, scrubbed pink and hair still damp from the shower. He would draw Sherlock to him, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock would think that John was going to kiss him, so he would turn his face to receive John’s touch, but the fingers in his hair would yank his head back. John would drag Sherlock to his knees so that his face was level with John’s crotch.

Dream-John would untie the belt holding the gown closed and bury his fingers back in the silky curls. There, before Sherlock’s eyes were the red pants. They were snug because John was fully erect inside them.

 _“Oh,”_ Sherlock would sigh. Dream-John’s grip on his hair would tighten and he would push Sherlock’s face into his cotton-covered erection. Grinding Sherlock’s face against the heat of it. Rutting against Sherlock’s jaw line.

In some dreams John would palm his hard cock through the material, moaning for Sherlock to look, to see, to observe. “Sherlock,” Dream-John would say, “look at me, watch me. I’m going to make myself come for you.” And then he would arch off of the sofa or bed or chair and call out Sherlock’s name, dampness blooming on the front of the red pants. Sherlock could smell it in the dream.

These dreams always left Sherlock breathless upon waking and he would need to change his pyjamas and bedding. He came in his sleep like a randy hormonal teenager during each one.

Both John and Sherlock felt something more than friendship was on the verge of happening, soon the dance would end.

Sherlock finally gathered up his courage and the next time he knew John had on the red pants, he acted.

“John,” he was sitting in his chair, John was in the kitchen.

“You want tea, Sherlock?” John answered back.

“No, John.” He cleared his throat. “Come here.” As an after thought, “Please.”

John came out with his own cup of tea and set it down on the table by his chair. “What is it?” 

“No, come over here. Stand in front of me.” Sherlock extended his hand. Once John was close enough he latched onto his belt and pulled him the rest of the way.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” Sherlock was still gripping John’s belt and was starting to work the buckle free of the leather tongue it held. John slapped half-heartedly at Sherlock’s hands.

“John, you and I both know we are heading towards something more than friendship. The tension that has been building in this flat since we moved back in is tangible. Its like a third entity here that is pushing us towards each other.”

“What are you saying?” John was trying to maintain a neutral expression, but there was colour rising up his neck and his ears had gone dark pink. 

“Plainly stated, John, I want you. I want us.” He had gotten he belt undone and off and was working on John’s zip. He had to see the pants.

“You want me? Us?” John swallowed, his throat made an audible click. The truth of what was happening finally coming clear in his mind. “Oh yes. Please.”

Sherlock got John’s flies open and pushed the jeans down John’s legs far enough to get them out of his way. He smiled.

“What are you grinning for?” John was looking down at him and brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“These.” He ran his fingers over the red cotton covering John’s semi-hard penis, making John’s stomach muscles flutter. “These stupid damned red pants. They have been driving me to distraction for weeks.” He inserted his index finger under the waistband and ran it from right to left, liking the way the hair behind it brushed his skin. It was softer than he’d imagined. Darker too. “I dream of them. Of us. Together.”

“So. What now?” John cupped his hand under Sherlock’s chin and tilted his head so he was looking up at John’s face. “Are you sure? I know this is new for you. Shit, me too. ‘I’m not gay’, remember?” He bent and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“Yes, I’m sure. Show me?” Sherlock, for once, sounded timid.

“We will show each other. We will go slow.” John knelt in front of Sherlock and pulled him forward for another kiss, this one open-mouthed and hungry. Two men starving for something only the other could provide.

Sherlock moved his hands around behind John and gripped the band of the red pants. “May I see you in just these, first?”

“Of course.”


End file.
